Chapter 5

Snape extinguished the blue fire beneath the cauldron with a flick of his wand and a relieved sigh. Finally, the potion was finished—thankfully, it also had a decent shelf-life, unlike a few of the stronger versions, which could only sit for a few days before losing their potency. No, this one would last two weeks, which made his life much easier, as the boy would need steady doses for at least one. He could make it in bulk and it would remain useful.

He carefully measured out a dose into a small vial and pocketed it to take to the infirmary—it was a bit warm, but that wouldn't cause any harm. What he wanted to do was go collapse in bed, as he hadn't gotten more than four hours of sleep in the past three and a half days, but the sooner Potter got the first dose, the better.

He could bottle the rest to take to Pomfrey later.

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Harry blinked up at the ceiling of 'his' room, musing at the fuzzy patterns the moonlight cast across the stones. He wanted to go back to sleep, but whatever had woken him seemed determined to keep him awake, sending little frissions of anxiety skittering over his nerves.

Something was going to happen tonight—he was sure of that—and he was willing to bet that it wasn't going to be good.

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Snape slid through the halls like a shadow, a habit of his as soon as the clock struck curfew, (the better to catch the unwary student—his usual impressive stalking made noise) and barely blinked at a twinge in his left forearm. It felt rather like an overtight muscle announcing its displeasure.

It was only a few seconds later, when the twinge morphed into a tingling burn, that he realized what it meant. Adrenaline started to wash the haze of weariness from his mind.

The Dark Lord was angry.

Shit.

Snape lengthened his stride, well aware that Potter's mental barriers were at an all-time low from whatever had caused that last attack—the boy would be in no condition to keep the Dark Lord's anger from his mind. The burn intensified, but Snape ignored the pain—it wasn't the sharp, shooting agony of a Calling—trying to remember the last time he'd felt something similar.

If he remembered correctly, Potter had ended up in the Infirmary for a few days afterwards… and his (albeit feeble) Occulumency shields had been in place at the time. Without any such shields and in his current condition—he could be permanently crippled or worse. No matter how much he despised the boy… even Potter didn't deserve that.

Snape broke into a run.

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Madame Pomfrey all but panicked when the alarm went off, informing her that one of her patients was in dire need of immediate attention.

She only had one patient.

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By the time Snape made it to the Hospital Wing, Madame Pomfrey was already beside Harry Potter's bed, trying desperately to restrain the boy without using magic. He was convulsing silently, mouth open in a soundless scream.

"Poppy!"

"Severus, thank goodness! Come help me!"

He didn't need to be told twice, moving forward to pin the boy's shoulders to the bed, "The potion's in my pocket," he gritted out, surprised by the effort it took to hold down one scrawny child.

Madame Pomfrey took the hint and fumbled in the outer pockets of his robes until she came up with the single vial of nerve regenerator, which she immediately poured down the boy's throat, holding his mouth closed and stroking his throat to make him swallow.

Potter jerked once, hard, breaking free of both of them and Snape grabbed for his wrist on pure reflex.

He felt his hand close over too-cold flesh—then a jolt of magic crackled through him, harsh and untamed. Snape gave a short cry of surprise and his own magic welled up in counter, melding with the crackling force that could only be Potter's, calming and gentling it. His magic flowed outward in a way he'd never even thought was possible, using the hand through which the boy's magic raged as a locus to quiet the storm in Potter's veins.

Snape released the boy's wrist and recoiled, confusion and anxiety crashing through him in a torrent as wild as Potter's magic had been a heartbeat before. He shook his head, staggering back a few steps, dazed. He was vaguely aware of Madame Pomfrey turning towards him, then the Dark Mark flared with the pain of a Calling and shoved him into unconsciousness.

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White, white, gray-brown, more white… From the color scheme, this was the infirmary. Very early morning, if one were to believe the lighting from the window.

And that, if he wasn't mistaken, was a standard monitoring charm… one used by parents to keep tabs on small children during the night. Which made sense, after a fashion, if Madame Pomfrey wanted to know when he woke—but the type of charm was downright insulting.

It also meant the fussy woman was going to be arriving any second.

Damn.

His first impulse was to get up and leave, but he knew that was likely a bad idea. Even lying down he felt a bit dizzy. He had almost resigned himself to a very long day when the sense of dizziness tripled and he felt as though he was swaying before dimming back down—what the hell?

Maybe he did need to be in the infirmary. He had the sudden desire to speak to Madame Pomfrey, to ask what had happened, what was wrong with him. She hadn't arrived yet—where was the woman? She never took that long to check on a waking patient unless she knew someone else was in the room with them. And he was relatively certain he would have noticed someone at his bedside, considering he had his eyes open.

So. Obviously she either thought he would rather be left alone—which had never stopped her before—or she had someone else to take care of and assumed he'd be all right for a few minutes. Or she'd slept through the alarm, but that was even less likely than the 'leaving him be' idea. Which meant that something was wrong with Potter.

Something tightened in him at the thought, tensing in a way that was wholly unfamiliar and more than a little disturbing in its intensity.

His train of thought was broken when Madame Pomfrey bustled over to his bedside, "Well, Severus, I'm glad you woke up, but I would like you to stay here the rest of the night for monitoring. We'll need to speak to Albus in the morning…" she sighed, plopping down in the chair next to the bed.

Snape opened his mouth to ask why, but the words he actually spoke were "How's Potter?"

Poppy started, then offered a wan smile, "Of course, I'm sorry. He's… as well as can be expected, considering. He's still unconscious, so it's difficult to tell, but it looks as though he'll be all right. If you hadn't brought that potion when you did, well, I don't want to think about what could have happened. Even with it, I'm not sure he could have made it, but after what you did… he'll survive. Thank you, Severus."

What I did? He started to sit up, feeling at a disadvantage laying down, "And what, exactly, did I do?" He remembered the raging torrent of Harry's magic and how his own had somehow soothed it, but what that meant, he had no idea.

"Lie back down!" Madame Pomfrey barked, suddenly on her feet and glaring.

Snape was no fool—he knew when he was outmatched. He meekly did as he was told and waited.

The woman sighed, running a hand through her hair, "I'm sorry Severus. That was a bit harsh. You're suffering from physical and acute magical exhaustion. You shouldn't be moving about until your magic has recovered somewhat."

She sighed again, "And you, well… bonded the boy to you."

"I what?"

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